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Carlo searched the dish with his fork. He wasn't that hungry, but since John had left him the salad in the fridge, he felt guilty. Absently chewing to the rhythm of his favorite Weather Report song, he browsed the headlines. The Italian government was still there, with all its ministers at their places.

He ate a tomato. Not that tasty, still too green.

Nothing about last evening's football match: it was yesterday's newspaper. He didn't know what was going on at home till the following day, and he didn't know much about the new country he was living in. He felt like he was stuck in a hall, between two closed doors, waiting for someone who had the key.

- I'm not allowed to let you in, sir.

He bit every single kernel of corn he found.

Nobody seemed interested in buying Alitalia. No wonder. People don't usually like to lose their money.

The fresh, slightly sweet taste of cucumber reached the back of his mouth, and rested there the whole day.

It was with him in the museum, while he sketched one of Picasso's paintings in his notebook (he loved the blue period). He sat in front of it and drew carefully, his tongue pressing the taste of cucumber against his teeth.

The juice bought in Times Square reminded him of gazpacho, although the only ingredients were strawberries and bananas and yogurt. And his Starbucks iced coffee had a strange aftertaste, as if someone had dropped a cucumber in it, hopefully not on purpose.

- It's been sixteen years since I've eaten a cucumber.

- Did you make a vow?

- No, but once on my birthday I took a slice from my mother's plate, and it spoiled the whole dinner for me, cake included.

- So much power in one slice! We should celebrate your discovery of cucumbers.

John reached for a bottle of white wine in the fridge.

- To your being here.

- To your hospitality.

- No worries. I am glad to make proselytes of my

religion.

- Hedonism is not your religion.

- Indeed. I am speaking of a god both terrible and merciful, shiny and dark. Generous and exigent.

- Investment banking? You're being blasphemous.

- Investment banking is only a little servant of my

powerful and eternal god.

- Mammon? That's an old one.

- New York City.

- A god? And who would be its sacerdotes?

- All the men of good will who come here and are overcome by its beauty and plenty.

- And the homeless are the sacrificial victims, I guess. Punished because of their lack of faith?

- You should be punished for it, and returned to the hell of Italy, where all the seven sins live together, you ingrate. You enjoy the life of this city, breathe with it—

- Inhale the smell of trash in the street.

- —and spit on it.

- Just pointing out what your eyes don't see anymore. The truth that is not in your book. There is no whole.

Or, at least, the whole is spoiled, not pure. As if there was an aftertaste.

- Clean your mouth, then.

- May I use your toothbrush? I forgot mine.

Carlo felt blood in his mouth. The toothbrush was harder than his own.

He let the water fill the bathtub and went in. After washing away the dust of the day, he still felt dirty, as if every single passing car had left its exhaust on his body. He felt the sweat of the people who were with him in the

subway, thousands of ants walking up his arms, carrying things heavier than themselves. It was food, probably. Multi-ethnic food, yet every single take-away box was veiled with the same smell of fried chicken. Only when all those noisy chickens had left his tired nostrils could he finally try, in vain, to recover his personal odor. He had used John's shower gel, and felt it still on his skin, the wrapping smell of coconut exaggerated by the steam filling the bathroom.

Maybe it was the itching skin, or the bed sheets which didn't suit his body like his own, but he couldn't sleep well and had agitated dreams he would never remember. He was standing on the Staten Island ferry, the content of his heavy bags scattered on the wet pavement. He put everything back in the bags, the photos, the black and white sweater he loved so much, Lolita. But there she was, again, her mouth open, calling him from the cover of the book on the pavement. And the ferry didn't move. It hadn't moved for hours, although the engines were on, and people continued to come and go. Finally he was alone, sitting in the wind. Only then the ferry started. It wasn't going towards the Statue of Liberty, though. Carlo found himself cruising on the green of Central Park, squirrels at the rudder. A guy with long hair waved at him from Strawberry Fields, and he cried.

The house was empty when he woke up, and he filled it with hip-hop from John's computer. Words of rage echoed in the kitchen while he made himself a cup of coffee—endless compared with the Italian espressos he was used to drinking.

He dressed carefully, choosing a nice shirt, but he couldn't find his favorite sweater. Then he saw it clearly, lying on the parapet of the Brooklyn Bridge while he took pictures of the sunset. With it, in the place of the forgotten things, the plan for the day he had left on the kitchen table. He wandered a lot, without geometry.

Not surprised, he found himself there, as if led by a magnet under his feet, the doors expecting him to enter. And he made his way out only half an hour later; it had been quicker than he had imagined.

The house was still empty, and he filled it again with hip-hop, this time trying to sing along. He prepared a tomato sauce with eggplants for pasta, and roast beef. Finally he made a salad, finishing off the vegetables in the fridge, and adding a pear, walnuts and cheese.

- Fancy dinner.

- I wanted to thank you.

- Okay, stop being polite. By the way, I thought you didn't like cucumbers.

- There was a half. It looked lonely.

- And you rescued him and delivered him to his family. How nice.

- I know you like cucumbers, and I wanted to make you happy.

- Cucumbers as instruments of courtship. Interesting.

- I didn't mean to court you. I just wanted to ask you a favor.

- Shoot.

- Would you mind if I stayed here a bit longer?

- New York City captured you, my skeptical friend?

- Not yet. But I have a job interview.

- New York got you.

- Bullshit.

- With whom?

- Mammon.